Being a parent is a terrifying job. My daughter has had enough emotional baggage placed on her shoulders to fill the hold of the Titanic (and we all know what happened there, James Cameron notwithstanding). I often joke that I'm not starting a college fund for her; I'm starting a therapy fund. My son is only sixteen months, still old enough to absorb such parental mistakes as strained peas and pureed beef, but young enough to have a fighting chance. My daughter is nine years old, however, and past the point of no return.
The first six months of my daughter's life, my wife spent days in bed, shades drawn, with just enough energy to fish out a breast when our daughter got hungry. Some nights I'd come home and find them in the dark bedroom, the air filled with the smell of sour milk. Yet, my daughter was a happy baby, always full of smiles. She continued that trend, accepting the ups and downs of the past nine years with the grace and maturity of ... Well, a comparison doesn't readily come to mind, because a majority of the adults I know accept change about as well as I do, and that isn't saying much.
My daughter is another story. She spent one Easter Sunday visiting her mother on the psychiatric ward. She's gone camping for a couple of days and come back home to find that her mother no longer lived there. She's also had me clinging on to her like a piece of driftwood when the barge of my life hit an iceberg. (Again with the Titanic imagery. I swear I haven't been listening to the greatest hits of Celine Dion while I write.) I'm a crabass when I come home from work sometimes, and my daughter has become a pretty good barometer of my emotional state. If I start railing about unwashed dishes or unmade beds or baths no taken, she will look at me with her dark eyes and say "Did you have a bad day at work?" or, even, worse, "Why are you being so mean?"
I don't know how my daughter has managed and still manages to be the happiest and most grounded person in our household. (Don't get me wrong. She can have her tantrums. I once drove to her ballet class with her screaming in the backseat "I want a puppy!" over and over for the entire twenty minute trip. I was seeing halos around street lights and had developed a tic by the time we arrived at the dance studio.) Perhaps she handles upheaval so well because, for the most part, that's all she's really known. The only constant she's had is change. I know that's a bit of a cliche, but think about it. An adult has a longer time to develop strong, sometimes unhealthy attachments to lifestyles. If you're in a fifteen-year relationship with someone and it ends abruptly, that's your cue to reach for the ativan and a cocktail. If your whole life has been only five or six years long, your mommy moving out may simply mean that you get the bigger bedroom. It's a glass half-full, half-empty thing, and my daughter is definitely a half-full kind of girl.
She still believes in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy (or she's hedging her bets). She still thinks I can draw better than Walt Disney. She still likes me to read to her at night. And she still says her prayers without wondering if Jesus is really listening to her.
Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows is, among other things, the patron of youth. He was only 24 when he died of tuberculosis in 1862. During his life, however, he had a wild, good time. He liked girls and literature and dancing and theater. He was almost shot by a stray bullet during a hunting trip. He also, according to my research, miraculously survived two, near-fatal illnesses, one a nasty throat abscess. While he was sick, he promised God he would become a priest if he recovered. (If you've ever been severely hungover, you understand this impulse. I've made similar promises: "God, if you get me through this, I will never drink again, and I'll go to confession every day, twice on Sundays!") Of course, like any kid, once Gabriel was healthy, he forgot these promises because he had a date with a zaftig pig herder, a cute pizza waitress, or a pouty sheep castrater. God has an irritating way of not giving up, however. God keeps knocking on your door until you open it.
Gabriel's brother, Paul, died. His brother, Lawrence, committed suicide. His sister, Mary Louisa, died during a cholera epidemic. Eventually, Gabriel answered the door and joined the Passionist Institute. He died before he was ordained, but attained "a heroic degree of sanctity by a life of self-denial and great devotion."
Okay, self denial and devotion. I am forty-something years old, and I panic if I don't know what I'm having for dinner when I wake up in the morning (pigs in a blanket, if you're interested). My daughter, however, could get out of school this afternoon and discover that our house was blown away to Oz by a twister. Her only response would be, "Could I have chicken nuggets?" Gabriel would have much the same reaction, I suspect. It's all about picking up, moving on, and trusting that God's on your side.
Perhaps I just need to take a few lessons from my daughter and Gabriel. I shouldn't sweat about how bad a father I am, how much I've screwed up my kids' lives. I should just roll with whatever comes my way and have faith.
When life gives you lemons, scream for a puppy.
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